


Ghosts

by Alchery



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Frodo gone and went Sixth Sense y'all!, M/M, Past Memories, Post BoFA, a bit angsty i guess, heart ache, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 03:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6736108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alchery/pseuds/Alchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is home in Hobbiton and dealing with the aftermath of the battle, the affects of the ring, memories of when he was with the company and of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long while ago and totally thought I uploaded it when I had finally finished it. So rather than accidentally keep this for myself, I'm sharing it like how I wanted to. Go through some moments and heart break with our dear hobbit Bilbo. I could probably write something better for my summary, but we all know I suck at those.

Days since he arrived home from his long trip home from Erebor, Bilbo was rearranging his things that were given back to him – or taken back, seeing as how they all thought him dead and began selling all his stuff off at auction. His room, his kitchen, dining room, living room, the guest rooms – everything was slowly going back into place. Yet even though he was making it to look as it did before he hurriedly ran off on his adventure, he felt that his home was suddenly quite empty despite the things he had – both old things and new thing from his journey –, even the grand size of his home seemed far too big for him alone.

He stopped after placing his miscellaneous things back onto the mantel of his fireplace and looked around, remembering that night the dwarves first came to his home. The song they sang of their old home now reclaimed rung through his memory as he gazed form place to place. He could remember where every dwarf sat and stood – and suddenly remembered that Thorin himself stood where he was currently. He could remember it clearly as if it were yesterday: Thorin, his expression somber, leaning against the mantel, a pipe in his hand, gazing distantly into the fire as he led his kin into song.

Bilbo took in a sharp breathe and stood up straight, the sound of Thorin’s deep voice ringing in his head. He hadn’t realized he was leaning his shoulder against the mantel itself, as if he were listening to them sing all over again – memorized by the dwarf king’s voice. He gulped as best he could to wet his dry throat, though his mouth was already dry from having to recall that they weren’t there anymore.

He wasn’t there anymore.

He would never be there anymore.

Bilbo quickly moved away from his fireplace and into his kitchen to make himself some tea. He needed to calm his mind and wet his palette. After setting the kettle on his stove, he left for the pantry to fetch himself some food that he had more than gladly bought at the market just two days before. Walking just into the pantry, he stopped and suddenly saw Balin and Dwalin, standing there talking as if they lived there, as if they were there in his home still. His memory must have chosen to ignore what it was they said that day, as he recalled the two of them turning around and looking at him. Dwalin, looked as impassive as ever; and Balin, with the smile on his face after Bilbo had apologized to them, telling him his apology was accepted. It was a brief memory of their action as they looked back at him, but not long after they turned back towards where is large barrel of beer sat, they vanished into thin air like they weren’t there.

But they weren’t there.

And they never were there again.

The hobbit frowned and slumped his shoulders, his appetite lost. Another deep breathe to keep him from remembering anything further that had happened just within the threshold of his pantry. Instead, he turned back around and walked back into his kitchen, watching the tea kettle and waiting for it to blow steam from its spout so that he could pour himself some tea, all the while failing to keep his memories from plaguing him the rest of the evening.

\---

Night had rolled around, he was more depressed than he already was since having left Erebor. For the other hobbits, he put on a show that he was adjusting to life back in Hobbiton after his “little escapade” as the days went by, yet it still earned him the name Mad Baggins for it – as well as his other rambunctious fits of possessiveness. But in truth, the more he worked on his home, the more the memories came flooding in of just how lonely he was now, driving him into a deeper depression.

Nearly two years he spent with those 12 dwarves, The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, having an adventure that he never thought he would get to experience in his lifetime – or ever at all. Now with all that happened, seeing all of the people he had become so close to be left behind – in more ways than one, he doubted that he would ever go on another such journey ever again. He couldn’t bare the fact that he would most likely never see them again after making such bonds – once was enough to last him a lifetime.

As he began to settle into bed, he remembered how he and the dwarves had to make places for them to sleep after the beds and couches were taken up. And the one room next to him, at one point that first night they were there, was where he set Thorin up to sleep in. Remembering how the song he sang with the company was continuously hummed and mumbled by the dwarf king – then prince, just loud enough to be heard through the wall and into his room until he himself fell asleep. For Bilbo and Bilbo alone to hear. The memory of it gave him mixed feelings, reminding him of how the uncomfortable dreams he had that night made him feel because of the damned dwarf. Yet this time, instead of just being uncomfortable, he could tell what these mixed feelings were – longing, loneliness, sadness, yet at the same time, he felt warmth in his chest. The thought of how Thorin that night tried with his might to entice the hobbit into following him on this wild adventure that could possibly kill him along the way – possibly never making it to the destination, and if so, possibly never succeeding – or ever seeing it reconquered to top it off. Never seeing home again. Yet here he was.

Finally home.

Bilbo gripped his pillow. He did it again. He remembered something that he honestly didn’t want to remember, especially this. Especially anything that had to do with him. But this memory, he didn’t want to let go of yet, he didn’t wish for it to end despite the pain in heart. He waited for it to lull him to sleep once more like it had done that night. So he closed his eyes tightly, remembered the low rumbled voice that reminded him of distant thunder – sad, determined, and yet alluring.

_Far over the misty mountains grim,_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns dim._  
_We must away, ere break of day,_  
_To win out harps and gold from him!_

And within minutes, he fell into a strangely more peaceful sleep than the first night he arrived home.

\---

Months later, now a late fall afternoon, his home back to normal and himself slowly becoming as normal as he possibly could, he heard a knock on his door. No one had come to see him since he was given his things back. So to be honest, he thought that it was one – some or all, to be truthful – of the dwarves come to see him for tea, as it was almost 5. They must have forgotten that they didn’t need to knock to come in. When Bilbo got to the door, however, there were no dwarves of Erebor standing at his doorstep, but instead, a fellow hobbit with a grim look on his face.

Frodo was now orphaned. His parents died in a boating accident just up the Bradnybuck River coming home from a visit. Frodo was being taken to Brandybuck Hall to live with a relative. But Bilbo, despite not knowing the child as much as you’d think, felt sorry for him in more ways than one. Frodo lost those whom he was closest to. When they came walking by at the market by his home to see relatives, he was primarily a happy child who befriended everyone who he came across – he remembered now that Frodo loved Gandalf’s fireworks when he had come to town just a few weeks ago. He could remember the innocent smile he wore as he watched the fireworks burst with color and light. He could remember how excitedly the young lad talked to him about the pretty colors. Now, he could easily imagine how lost, broken, and numb he must feel.

For a few years, Frodo lived at Brandybuck Hall with his uncle Rodrick, but the young lad became rebellions as time went by. And before he knew it, he offered to take the boy in as Frodo was becoming too much to handle. There was a bit of an uproar over the situation, especially since he had come back from his adventure from the Lonely Mountain. None the less Bilbo took him in, unsure himself that he could take care of him. He had the room, he had the time, the open space, the ability to give him the freedom he wanted because of his foolish Took side, but the disciplinary part of him from his Baggins side. Not only that, but he wouldn’t mind having someone around. His memories of the dwarves kept him busy talking to thin air, which begun to mess with his mind. Some real sanity would do him some good. It would also do Frodo some good to maybe be around someone who knew heartache was, help not only him cope, but Bilbo as well. He still suffered from the memories he had from his adventure and the heart ache of having not seen any of the dwarves again.

Arriving at Bilbo’s abode, Frodo hesitantly walked in, looking every which way to investigate his surroundings. The older hobbit followed after and closed the door, setting the few things that the boy had onto the floor.

“No need to be shy, lad.” Bilbo said with a small smile. He knew this was new and moving from place to place was difficult for him. It was his third move in just a few years after all.

Frodo looked up at Bilbo and pursed his lips together. After a few seconds of staring at him, he nodded and looked back down the hallway, moving forward just a wee bit faster. The blonde heaved a deep breath. So far so good. He wasn’t surprised that the boy didn’t say anything and he didn’t expect him to say anything to him for a while. He was a quiet boy as it was, but after all of this – his parents, more than likely the small amount of depression he had, and the knowing that he was being given up by his close relatives – he couldn’t blame the boy. He hadn’t said a word to him on the way back from Brandybuck.

“My name is Frodo.”

Bilbo chuckled as he hung up Frodo’s coat for later use. “So I’ve heard!” It was the first thing the boy had said the whole day.

“What’s your name?” Bilbo turned around, his smile on his face.

“A game we’re playing Fro-“

“Nice to meet you Thorin…!” He said quietly.

Bilbo froze in his place, eyes wide, his skin became white as snow. There was no one there where Frodo was standing. No one there for him to be looking up at. Yet he looked and talked as if there were truly a person there talking to him. Slowly, he walked over to where Frodo was standing, only to see him nod slightly, still looking up into thin air.

“Frodo…” He started, hesitantly, trying not to look at where the young hobbit was looking. “Wh-Who are you talking to?”

Frodo looked over at Bilbo finally and pointed up to where he was previously looking. “Thorin. He said he’s you’re…” Frodo trailed off, looking back at the air again. “How do you say it?” Frodo asked. “What does that mean?” He said after a beat.

“Wh-What does what mean?” He asked wearily.

“Ghivashel…?” Frodo said slowly, as if repeating what was said to him. Bilbo took a quick and sharp breath in, his body stiffening and eyes tearing up. There was no possible way he could know Khuzdul. “He said it means “my treasure”…?” The young hobbit looked over at his uncle confused. “What does he mean by that?”

Bilbo covered his mouth, attempting to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. After years of trying to hold himself together, of his mind plaguing him from the memories over Thorin’s death and the madness that came with him owning the ring he found in the Goblin caves, he could feel himself falling apart. Out of anything, the hurt and sadness he felt overwhelmed him immensely.

He would have fallen against the wall had Frodo not grabbed his hand, pulling him out of his near sobbing fit. “Uncle?” Bilbo looked down at him and searched his face. The boy was confused, concerned, a little scared for him. Shaking his head, Bilbo sniffled and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s nothing.” He said whispered out, only to repeat it just loud enough for Frodo to hear, forcing a small smile on his face.

“I don’t know what it means…”

\---

Standing there watching the two, he frowned, feeling as if his heart was torn out. After a moment, he shook his head, a small smile yet sad smile upon his face. Just as he thought…it was better off not telling him the truth in his final moments after all…

So as the years went by, he watched, he helped in subtle ways he could, played with the young boy while he was young as if he were the son he would never have, wipe away the older hobbit’s tears at night, watched as blonde hobbit slowly became obsessive over a golden ring – which saddened him greatly…and when the time came, he left with his Ghivashel. He would still be there for him until his final breathe, knowing still that they would never be together even in death. Knowing that to him, Thorin was nothing more than but a ghost of his past. A sad memory that made Bilbo both cry and smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is short, but it's my first bagginshield fic and my hand just kinda slipped. I hope y'all like it! I have other fics in the process, they're slow going and only working on them until I actually finish them from start to finish. Once the chapters are done, I'll upload them on here, but until then, don't hold your breath.


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